Content

… rantings of a depressive procrastinator. Did I mention, I write? …

a Christmas Journey

  

Genesis 2.7,  Exodus 20.5, I Sam. 8.51    

 

                   

  I.     The Golden Age of Kings

                               When men make men into kings

                              we forge their crowns from gold

                              we’ve sold our lives to buy.

                              The woods are stalked and yield a furry sacrifice

                              to grace and warm the shoulders

                                                                              of our kings.

                               When we make men into kings

                              our carpenters and craftsmen ply

                              their trades, and royal chambers

                              carve to vaulted towering height.  Each leaf

                              and figure finds its image sharply

                              made, inscribed and brightly burnished

                              for the royal eye, when men make men

                                                                                               into kings.

 

                                                             Small fingers pull the coloured thread

                                                            through linen, velvet, silk and wool.

                                                            Milliners cut and tool and block

                                                            fine shapely hats for the chosen heads

                                                            when we make men into kings.

 

                                                            Oh, Princes sweet and ladies fair:

                                                            come dance around.  come dance around.

                                                            The feast is laid, the music gay:

                                                            come dance around.

                                                                                    come dance.

                              And still our kings do rise and fall

                              and rise and fall.

                              God save the king.

                              And, Heaven help the people, all.

 

 

II.       CARAVAN’S ARRIVAL AT BETHLEHEM

                                                                                                Matthew 1.20, Matthew 2.2, Luke 2.20                          

The Magi:     When we’ve stayed the passage,

                    once complete, the deed’s forever done.

                     We shan’t clear out the noise

                              of hollow shrieks

                              from camels wild with cold thirst,

of men incensed by hot

                    rebellion, their lives gone acrid from

                    too much wanting

nor doubt this is the place star-fated travel meant.

This clumsy shed his well-shaped

head defends,  its flimsy roof

held by two beams in a single cross.

This is the place—and way—all

life begins or ends.

  

Cameldrivers:      And in the end—as it is with ends—

                              the governing of all His friends rests in the

                              secret sins and public lies—the casting

                              of the eyes, that would not

                              know him—laid on His head and back

                              and hands, their stains.

  

 The Reconciled: Our King within a friend!

                               We thought you would be grand

                              as our imaginings.  We looked for you

                              in palaces we built for kings.

                              We, in the vaulted halls of thought

                              and in the temple sold and bought

                              our sacrifice.

                                                           All the while, your words—seeds

                                                           cast among the soil we are—

                                                           you watered by the

                                                           spillage from your

                                                                                        broken jar.

 

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